Stille Nacht
by Kittystitch
Summary: A short one-off. Sometimes gifts come from unexpected sources.


His breath came out in white puffs on the cold night air as he followed closely behind the nervous little Frenchman, staying in the shadows of the deserted city street. When the small man pulled up abruptly at one inconspicuous door, Garrison almost collided with him, and he felt Chief move in close behind him.

"You should be safe here for the night, Lieutenant," their guide whispered in heavily accented English, pronouncing it 'left-tenant'. "I apologize for the spare conditions, but we are being watched so closely...you must understand."

"Thank you, Monsieur LeVesque. You've been a big help."

The Frenchman reached for the door handle, but Chief beat him to it, carefully pushing the door open a crack, and easing inside. Garrison slipped in beside Chief onto the top landing of a narrow wooden staircase leading down into near total darkness. The Frenchman had disappeared into the frigid night.

Chief was down the rickety steps in a couple of bounds, his hand over the lens of his flashlight, blocking most of the illumination. Garrison followed him, making a quick survey of their home for the night - a small cellar room with one army cot, and a square table listing precariously against the far wall, holding an oil lamp with only a trace of oil remaining. A couple of thin, worn wool blankets were folded haphazardly on the cot. A narrow window up near the landing, at street level, was the only other light source, although it was blackened with decades of grime.

"Heat would have been nice," Chief stated flatly.

"You're beginning to sound like Casino," Garrison told him. He got only a stare in response.

Garrison tugged his greatcoat more tightly around him, sat down on the cot, and pulled a stack of papers out of the messenger bag he carried. He beckoned Chief to sit beside him, as he unfolded the dog-eared, hand-drawn map.

"We're here." He pointed to the middle of a tight grid of streets. Then his finger traced a road leading east, out of town. "We'll rendezvous with the others here at 13:00 tomorrow. There's a dock on the river where the Resistance will have a fishing boat waiting to take us out to the sub."

Garrison wasn't sure what kind of response he expected from Chief, but when he got none, he asked, "Any questions?"

"Nope."

"We'll worry about finding a car when it's light. Traffic should be quiet enough on Christmas morning. Get some rest. You did good work today."

Garrison thought he saw something flash in Chief's eyes, but it was always hard to tell.

"I'll take the first watch," Chief offered. "Too wound up to sleep."

Garrison studied his young companion, trying to assess his state of mind, but as usual, Chief was unreadable. "Alright," he conceded. "I'll relieve you at midnight."

GG GG GG GG GG

Garrison had propped himself up on the cot with the maps and documents spread out across his knees, planning to study and memorize as much as he could before catching a nap. But two near-sleepless days overtook him. He awoke with a start, glanced at his watch. 23:30. He'd slept for three hours. And he was alone.

"God damn that kid," he cursed to himself. Just when he thought he'd drummed some sense of responsibility into these guys. A myriad of possible scenarios flashed through his mind, none of them good. Chief wouldn't have just taken off on his own across the French countryside, not speaking a word of the language. That would be suicide. And it was much too cold, and far too conspicuous, for him to be standing watch outside on the street.

A hinge squeaked. His gun was instantly in his hand, leveled at the doorway. Then there were three quick, soft knocks - a pause - and two more knocks. He recognized the code, and took his finger off the trigger as Chief slipped silently through the door and down the steps.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Shoppin'."

"Don't ever do that again."

Chief crossed to the dilapidated table, pulled it into the middle of the room, and began emptying the contents of a burlap sack.

"Do you hear me, Chief? I'm serious. I'll send your ass back to prison so fast your head will spin."

Chief only looked up at him with a small smile. Out of the bag came a half loaf of bread, a white napkin wrapped around some sliced meat, three apples, a tin can filled with some unidentifiable green stuff, and a box of Belgian chocolates with four pieces remaining.

"You'd be surprised what restaurants throw out, even during a war," Chief answered Garrison's raised eyebrow.

Last out of the bag were two bottles of good German lager. Once again Chief answered Garrison's quizzical look. "Those were harder."

Garrison tilted his head, silently demanding more information.

"You don't wanna know."

Garrison let it slide. He really didn't want to know. He felt confident that Chief had done nothing to endanger them. And he was starving.

They pulled the barely attached legs off of the wobbling table, and set it on the floor, the food spread out over it. They lit the lamp and set it in the middle of the table, sacrificing the remaining oil to give light and a little warmth. And they enjoyed their feast sitting cross-legged opposite each other, eating with their fingers, speaking little. The bread only had a couple of small spots of grey mold, and the green stuff in the can turned out to be cabbage cooked in a delicate cream sauce.

When the last of the food was gone, Chief split the four pieces of chocolate between them.

Garrison bit into one and the sweet cherry filling oozed into his mouth. "Next time, just tell me."

Chief lifted his bottle of lager in salute. "Merry Christmas, Warden."


End file.
